


Hearth

by OneofWebs



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Choking, Coming Untouched, Cunnilingus, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Mild S&M, Miscommunication, Moving In Together, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, Top Crowley (Good Omens), Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 14:05:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19747267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneofWebs/pseuds/OneofWebs
Summary: Aziraphale's been spending more and more time at Crowley's flat. Moving in only seems like the next natural step, so Crowley drops the question when it feels right. It probably wasn't right. Definitely wasn't, not when Aziraphale disappears for the next three days, and Crowley knows he's messed up.





	Hearth

**Author's Note:**

> This didn't get out of hand. I planned this one. It took days.

About fifteen minutes after they’d gone and purchased Aziraphale a real and true smart phone, he’d figured out how to set the most obnoxious alarm he could find. Sleeping wasn’t something he particularly cared for, but he was taken more with it given his frequent visits and overnight stays at Crowley’s flat. Even Aziraphale would fall asleep after a night of wine and being thoroughly ravished. The aftermath was always pleasant, because Crowley was a snake through and through and could find a way to mold them together just right. Where Crowley enjoyed having his angel all wound up in his arms, he did _not_ enjoy the alarm that went off promptly at six-thirty in the morning. Even if Aziraphale never sold a book, for _some_ reason, he was becoming a stickler for time. Seeing as they had so much of it now. The bookshop had to be open just so and waking up at six-thirty was the best way he had to deal with that. His excuse had been how he wasn’t used to sleeping; he couldn’t trust his body to wake up.

Crowley was beginning to doubt that, because Aziraphale jumped out of bed like he’d been awake for hours and did such a pleasant job of disturbing whatever sleep Crowley still had that the alarm hadn’t. The alarm did end, followed by the patter of Aziraphale darting about the room to find his clothes. Once he’d dressed, he was over on Crowley’s side of the bed where he thought to wake Crowley, but he was met with two scowling eyes instead. Even if Aziraphale apologized, Crowley knew it wouldn’t be genuine, so they skipped that part, and Crowley just sat up. The lack of decency was something Aziraphale was getting used to.

“Why, for the love of Satan,” Crowley droned, “am I awake?”

“Well, I do need to be off. The bookshop, you know,” he laughed, “it’s back! So. Might I trouble you further? Since you’re already awake, and all—”

“You planned this,” Crowley frowned.

“I would do no such thing. I always let you have your beauty sleep.” Aziraphale was already getting up, leaving unsaid somewhere the fact that Crowley was beautiful enough already and really didn’t need to sleep any longer. He had slept for a century.

“Whatever. What favor will I be doing for you this morning?”

“A lift, perhaps?”

Crowley snorted.

The first time Aziraphale had ever been to Crowley’s flat, the night the Apocalypse didn’t happen, he’d tried dreadfully to not be overwhelmed. He’d kept it to himself, but Crowley saw the slight ghost over in his eyes when he saw the statue. The winged pulpit from a church far too long ago was just one of the many art pieces that Crowley had made space for, and it clearly meant something. They both knew it, but they both kept just as silent. Things had fallen out after that. Aziraphale spent more time at the flat now than he ever had and still managed to be a bit choked up when he saw it. One damned statue could say Crowley loved him more than Crowley, apparently, but Crowley didn’t dwell on that. It was rather hard to, given how he did dwell on the amount of time he was now spending at the flat. The place still looked sore for being lived in, but he was here. Aziraphale was, as well.

Crowley pulled on some bit of clothes that said he cared, but barely—he’d left the shirt untucked and unbuttoned, mostly for the response. Aziraphale had already gone out the hallway, out and waiting by the door. When Crowley followed, Aziraphale’s gasp was near scandalized. That was enough for Crowley’s revenge, and he fixed himself up after that. Then, there were the keys, the glasses, and the smooch. Even if they were both walking out the front door, a goodbye kiss was always necessary.

While this wasn’t particularly a daily routine, it was becoming a routine. They would go for dinner at some small dive Aziraphale had found, retire to Crowley’s flat for whatever activities they had in mind for the evening, then sleep. In the morning, Crowley would wake at an ungodly time to that obnoxious little song and drive Aziraphale to the shop. After, he was free to do whatever it was he pleased. Sometimes, he would slink about the bookshelves and take a peek at things. Others, he would hole up in Aziraphale’s back room catching back up on his rest. On rarer occasions, he would drop Aziraphale off and go about his own wiles. Nobody was keeping score, so the tempting wasn’t necessary, but he couldn’t resist some of the small things, some of the inconvenient things. Mostly, though, he looked over art and plants and _his_ plants for whatever time it took before he was back at the shop to pick Aziraphale up. For dinner.

And, this routine, it carried on for some time. A long time being an entire week before Crowley noticed the first thing out of place. It was nothing overly alarming, just a few books he knew didn’t belong to him—he didn’t read—sitting neatly stacked on his desk. Aziraphale was gone already, deciding that it was a lovely enough day outside that he would walk and allow Crowley a few more well appreciated hours of sleep, so there was no way to ask. Easy enough it would’ve been to just phone him, but Crowley decided the books didn’t matter and he skulked off to inspect his plants. By the time Aziraphale was back in the flat, Crowley had forgotten, and Aziraphale was looking rather proud of himself.

A few days passed, and Crowley found himself in the bathroom, hands frozen at his trousers where he’d been meaning to undress himself for a nice bit in the bath but was instead staring at his sink. His flat had never been, as one might call, a _home_. It was simply a place that Crowley could come back to, especially for the sleeping bit. Given, all of his furniture was for furniture sake and rather quite designer looking. His sink had always been miraculously free of hair, dirt, and dust. But especially, it had always been free of clutter. There was a cabinet and the drawers beneath for _clutter_. That, and being a demon had certain perks. Human hygiene was quite beneath him, if he so chose, and he did choose. He did not own a toothbrush, being the point. If he did, it was most certainly not a manual one with blue stripes.

It would’ve been one of the expensive electric ones.

“Angel,” Crowley called. Aziraphale padded in a few moments later, wrapped tight in a plush white robe, his eyes still misted over with drowsiness. Even he got tired.

“Yes, dear?” Aziraphale leaned into the door frame. Crowley might have had a mind to mention the exhaustion, but there were more pressing matters.

“What’s this?” he pointed squarely at the little bathroom set that had seemingly appeared overnight. A brush, toothpaste, the brush, even mouthwash.

“I thought you wouldn’t mind. I had spares, and I seem to be spending the night here more than my own—”

“No, no, I got that. We just, you know,” he flung his hands in the air. “Why do you even have them?”

His vague hand gesture had been enough to get the point across, and Aziraphale nodded in understanding. “Ah, well. I think it’s nifty.”

“Nifty.”

“Yes, nifty. It makes for a good look, and I do rather like the minty fresh feeling. Perhaps you’d prefer cinnamon, though? Toothpaste comes in a miraculous number of flavors,” and he was making his way into the bathroom, over to the sink that he might somehow demonstrate his ramblings.

Crowley was taken aback and enamored all at once. Listening to Aziraphale talk to him about personal care was one thing, watching the way his eyes light up as he talked about the benefits of mouthwash was entirely something else. His cheeks were a little red, eyes uplifted, bright—Aziraphale was _happy_. Just as he was with lying, Aziraphale was bad at hiding _happy._ He wore every emotion on his sleeve, on his face, with tiny little changes here in there that spoke the mood louder than any talk, really, and Crowley knew every little twitch by heart. Creases around his eyes meant that he was bursting with life and could ramble for hours. Crowley would, given the chance, listen. Only—

“I would like to take a bath,” he said.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to—” but Aziraphale cut off with a gasp as he was suddenly closer to the sink than he’d meant to be, his hips pressed up against it with Crowley at his back, chin on his shoulder.

“Intrude? No, no,” Crowley spoke softly. “No such thing, angel. Maybe you’d like to join me? Bit of a bath can’t hurt, what with all the talk of care.” His hands were noticeably touchy this morning, dipping in between the folds of Aziraphale’s robe to touch at his chest.

“My, rather forward this morning, my dear?” Aziraphale was attempting with quite a respectable amount of valor to remain calm.

“Rather,” Crowley replied, and gave one of his soft pecs a squeeze. Aziraphale jolted and fell back into him.

Crowley pushed him forward, over the sink in such a way that Aziraphale could _clearly_ see Crowley behind him, all yellow eyes and a big toothy smirk. Suddenly, among Aziraphale’s particular bottles and baubles on the sink, a new little tube joined them. Aziraphale gasped over it, when Crowley reached over with his long and inappropriately bendy fingers and made some inappropriate comment about how the lubricant had always been there. That this was something Aziraphale had surely planned, and of course, ever a gentleman, Crowley would oblige him. His cock was hard against Aziraphale’s backside, and Aziraphale wasn’t saying no. In fact, he was whole-heartedly agreeing when he helped hike up his robe.

“I do need to be to the shop today, my dear— _oh_ ,” at the first finger.

“You’ll be a bit late,” Crowley said like a promise.

It hadn’t been a promise, rather a threat, and Aziraphale didn’t so much as walk into the bookshop as he did strangely waddle. Today was a day for dropping off, and Crowley did so enjoy the way he walked. This had led to that night, when Crowley picked him up, and Aziraphale had a small box with him. It had plates, his winged mug, and a couple more books. Crowley didn’t say anything, because that would’ve been rather off-putting. What, with how he’d gotten what he wanted earlier, so in return, he would let Aziraphale bring a few more things to the flat. Besides, his kitchen could probably use some livening up. Might it even be cooked in, time to time, if Aziraphale was there.

His fridge was always stocked with gourmet food, none of it ever able to go off. Originally, it had been for show, but it was now quite possibly for Aziraphale, who always marveled at the particular little pastries he could find if he moved things around just right. The fridge would do better with a mind of its own, but Crowley was fairly sure he had a grasp on what Aziraphale liked best. All it took was a wave of his hand, anyhow, and then Aziraphale would step into the lounge and curl up on the sofa with him. Golden Girls reruns were playing on the telly; Crowley was too engrossed in the show to really pick up when the quilt appeared. It was warm, and he gladly accepted the bit of frosting Aziraphale offered on his finger.

The quilt made a home for itself on the bed, and Aziraphale even managed to sleep the night through.

Sunday morning was the only morning Aziraphale devoted entirely to Crowley. The shop was closed, something about a day of rest, and there was nothing better to do than spend a day in bed. The quilt did not go unnoticed, tucked away at the end, when Crowley woke up to incessant kisses along the side of his face, down his neck, Aziraphale’s hand ghosting over his chest. Crowley was awake immediately, pushing up and gripping Aziraphale by his hair to pull him down into a heavy kiss. Crowley was already well and hard, Aziraphale had made sure of that, and keened when Aziraphale’s hand dipped below the sheets, his underwear, to take hold of him. _These_ were the Sunday mornings he enjoyed, and he most certainly would call it worship, the way Aziraphale handed his cock. What, with his perfectly manicured hands and how he knew just where to press, how to tug, how to have Crowley moaning into his mouth—their kiss.

Crowley retaliated in the only way he really knew how, with his tongue. He slipped it between Aziraphale’s lips and reveled in the way Aziraphale’s hand faltered, the way he seemed to tremble a bit closer with a demon’s tongue down his throat. Not literally, though it could be. If he wanted it. Aziraphale did pull back, completely, and threw the sheets back so he could settle down between Crowley’s spread thighs. He meant to lavish Crowley’s cock with the proper attention it deserved and bent down to lick at the head, a hand squeezed around the base.

“My—” Crowley’s hips bucked of their own accord, “what a surprise.”

It was. This wasn’t usually how Sunday mornings went. He did cherish everyone, especially when Aziraphale’s tentative little kitten licks became bolder, surer. Aziraphale wasn’t particularly good at this, but what he lacked for in skill, he always made up for with enthusiasm. That, and he did have _one_ particular skill. It wasn’t so much a skill as a facet of having no gag reflex, as an angel, and a really innate desire to take what he wanted. Especially if it was taking from Crowley, who was always eager to please. This time, it involved going down over Crowley’s cock until his nose was in neatly trimmed pubic hair and he could feel the head of Crowley’s cock at the back of his throat.

The effort Crowley gave to keep his hips still was valiant, if entirely unnecessary. Aziraphale held, careful not to scrape his teeth and always humming, sucking, something. Just the way he knew Crowley liked, to where he was hard pressed to hold back with the heat around his cock. All too stimulating, too _good_. He reached down and tangled a hand in Aziraphale’s hair, keeping him there just a touch longer than he could stand, then let him pull off. Aziraphale ran his hands lovingly over Crowley’s thighs before looking up at him.

“You can—well, I mean to say that I wouldn’t _mind_ if you were to. If it’s not too much trouble—”

“Yes, yes, alright,” Crowley took the moment to finish kicking his underwear off his ankle. Aziraphale was still annoyingly dressed in that nightshirt he wore, but that was fine. There was time for that.

Aziraphale, pleased with himself, smiled before he sank back down over Crowley’s prick. And oh, what a slow slide it was this time, with Aziraphale working his tongue along the protruding vein in gentle little teases. All slow enough to just egg Crowley into it, into doing what he wanted. His control was famously thin, this morning, and it only took the slightest threat that Aziraphale would pull back for Crowley to take hold of his head and _force_ him down. At the first press, Aziraphale _did_ choke. More out of shock, but then he was giving control over to Crowley, who used it like a starved fiend.

He worked his hips up, searching out his own orgasm with Aziraphale as nothing more than a tool. The idea made Aziraphale groan, made him shiver with want each time Crowley’s cock hit the back of his throat. He gagged on it, choked when Crowley hit particularly deep, and reveled in the way Crowley groaned for him. His hips were shaking with every thrust up, until he finally reached his point and held Aziraphale down. When he finished, his hands fell back to the bed, and Aziraphale pulled up to wipe his mouth. He had swallowed, just as Crowley suspected.

“Needed a mid-morning snack, did we?” Crowley smirked.

Aziraphale slapped his thigh for that comment, _gently_ , but it was well deserved. Crowley laughed and smiled it off and used his legs to pull Aziraphale a little closer, until Aziraphale got the hint and was straddling his waist. There were hands firmly on his chest, too, still as all the rest of him. Moments like these were quiet and lovely; Crowley wanted them forever. He drummed his fingers over Aziraphale’s hands, humming as he looked over him. Given how he was sitting, the distinct lack of a tent in his night shirt, well.

“What do you have for me this morning, angel?”

“Pardon?”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. If Aziraphale hadn’t been seated just so to keep him flat on the bed, he would’ve sat up to take this a little more seriously and a little less intimately. “Was that all? Surely, you weren’t just going to suck me off and leave, were you?”

“Well, no, I—rather, I suppose I hadn’t thought that far.”

“Is that why there’s nothing down there?” and he made a pointed glance.

“What—oh. No, there is definitely something down there. Definitely,” Aziraphale glanced off to the side like he was _nervous._ Crowley followed his gaze, off to the closet, and suddenly had the sparking idea to put up mirrors there.

“It’s just that I,” Aziraphale continued, curling his fingers into Crowley’s chest, “already…”

Crowley’s eyes widened, “you what?”

“I couldn’t help myself! Apologize, apologies, I just—” he stiffened.

“You, angel, are a gift. Splendid. Extraordinarily wicked, if I do say.”

“Oh, and you do,” Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

Crowley decided that he rather loved these mornings right then, sliding his hands down to Aziraphale’s hips to coax him further. If he could have these moments all the time, he might sacrifice a few things for that. Having Aziraphale in his bed every night, the occasional intimate wake up: two things that he could certainly get used to. He’d gotten used to the alarm; he could get used to this.

“Let me return the favor, at least. Let me suck you too. I know you like what I can do with the tongue,” and for emphasis, he showed it off in a quiet hiss between his teeth. Long, forked, all entirely unnecessary and obscene that it made Aziraphale shudder.

He’d knelt his way up the bed until they were close enough. Crowley would only need to bend his head, maybe an extra pillow, to do exactly as he pleased. Only, and for this, Aziraphale gripped his fists into the fabric at his chest, Crowley lifted the hem of his night shirt to find him well and exactly _missing_ a prick. Oh, and how Crowley never had a moment he wasn’t in awe of his angel, in complete and utter _love_ with him. Always surprising, always endearing, always something magnificent. Even after six-thousand years, Crowley still had a few things to learn.

“Oh, angel. You’ve got to let me at that,” he said. _This_ was new. _This_ was something Crowley just had to taste.

Aziraphale had opted for a cunt, of all things, smooth and hairless and wet. It took some maneuvering but took a tight squeeze of Aziraphale’s ass once he was just where he needed to be, and then Crowley was licking him, tongue thick again but still forked at the end to play over his clit. Aziraphale gasped out, gripping the headboard and fretfully trying to keep his night shirt up. Crowley positively devoured him, sparing no time for teasing little flicks or nudges—no, he dove straight in with his tongue and his lips, savoring and lapping at the wetness already there. Aziraphale opened for him beautifully, quivering and shaking and rocking his hips down. Crowley’s tongue was warm and incessant, dipping in and around his folds, all the while his lips moving and sending shock waves up Aziraphale’s spine.

He was sensitive. Overly so; he couldn’t help himself. When Crowley got aggressive, he melted. He’d had his fingers up inside himself the whole time Crowley was fucking his mouth, imagining that cock nestled up inside his folds instead, pounding him relentlessly—there just wasn’t enough time for everything. All he could do was gasp and moan pretty as Crowley savored him, ate him out like a starving man. He’d even had a mind to bring one of his hands away to play over his clit at the same time. And that. That was almost too much, enough that Aziraphale’s hips jerked and stuttered and he was coming again. Coming entirely undone, then being laid gently down on the bed while Crowley wiped at his chin.

“Blanket’s a nice touch,” Crowley commented, “think I’ll keep it here.”

Aziraphale smiled and didn’t miss, at all, how Crowley made him breakfast in bed some odd thirty minutes later.

Crowley hadn’t really given it much more thought until he was sitting in bed, watching Aziraphale taste each slice of omelet like it was the world’s most envied delicacy. It was just an ordinary omelet, though Crowley had been the one to make it. And maybe that’s what it was. The idea sprouted a bit of warmth in his chest, and he just watched on. Here, in his own flat, he didn’t so much wear his glasses. Never really had; never felt the need to. But the urge was bubbling up again, like these feelings were a bit too strong to face head-on without some armor. Valentino sunglasses were as good of armor as any. He’d make Aziraphale breakfast every morning if this is what it caused. That would require something much more solid than sleep overs four nights a week. Sometimes, Aziraphale _did_ stay at the bookshop.

The bookshop didn’t have a real apartment, contrary to looks. The second floor was mostly another section of shelves. There was a back room with a kitchenette and a couch, but the entire building was mostly done up for Aziraphale’s immense collection of rarities and first editions. So, seeing as his living arrangements were rather thin, maybe it only made sense. They both clearly enjoyed this new arrangement. Making it more official might be a little, well, _forward._ Maybe a little fast. But it would be strictly logical. All morning tumbles aside. The little smooches and the bathroom thing and the quilt—all of it was rather lovely.

Aziraphale’s bookshelf in the lounge was _also_ entirely lovely, even if it was new and clashed horridly with the furniture. Crowley didn’t really mind. In fact, for the day Aziraphale was to be at the shop, he found himself thumbing through books he’d never seen, feet propped up on the couch. He’d made it just a little wider, the couch, and a little plusher, with armrests that were fabric and soft instead of a part of the hard frame. He still had his white leather sofa around here somewhere and was thinking it might be time to bring it back. Maybe with less leather. More of something soft. Aziraphale would appreciate that, the soft. He might even have a few spare pillows to decorate the new, old, really, edition to the lounge. Which was becoming more of a living room, Crowley noted, and traded in the book for a bit of television.

They had an once and true reservation at the Ritz, come Friday night. Instead of a miracle, it had been an old-fashioned bribe, though Aziraphale didn’t need to know that. All he needed to know was what he wanted to order and what wine would pair expertly with it. Crowley always got something small and plain, usually just an appetizer played as an entree. Eating was nice, just not his main indulgence. Not in the way Aziraphale adorned it, anyhow. That, and even if Crowley were to order a full-size meal, the result would be the same. He would spend the majority of their time staring at Aziraphale, watching him painstakingly chew and enjoy every morsel he could. It made him a slow eater. Painfully slow. Enough slow that Crowley had time to _think_ , while he watched and sipped on his wine.

Friday dinner could be a part of their routine. They could cut out the weekly trips and turn it into a sort of date night, if they’d dared to call it that. Sure, after the Apocalypse that Wasn’t, they’d had all sorts of fun in initial exploration and confession. That was then, this was now. This was a comfortable domesticity that Crowley was almost afraid to shatter, and his sudden desire surely would. There was no way to tell what Aziraphale wanted, even if Aziraphale did want the same. Neither of them was rather savvy for asking. Only to quietly dance about each other in practiced moves of procrastination. It had only taken six-thousand years for them to get this far. Six-thousand and one, if anyone was counting. And Crowley was counting.

“That was positively divine,” Aziraphale looked about ready to orgasm in his pants; Crowley scoffed.

“Glad you enjoyed it. Would you like some dessert?”

“Oh, yes, yes. What shall we have?”

“I was thinking something with chocolate. They’ve got that little,” he snapped his fingers in the air, “thing, you know. The one.”

“Very much so, and that sounds lovely.” Aziraphale waved down the waitress instead of waiting for her to make her rounds, though he was entirely polite about the whole thing. She was nothing but smiles, then certainly dipped away to grab the dessert and a fresh bottle of wine. Crowley could do with another few drinks.

“Maybe I might teach you to drive,” Crowley mused, swirling the wine in his glass.

Aziraphale’s nose crinkled up in the way it did when he didn’t particularly care for a comment, then watched as Crowley downed the glass in a single gulp.

Dessert came. Crowley ate a bite or two, then happily indulged to feed it to Aziraphale, who hummed and licked his lips of chocolate sauce. They finished the bottle of wine, but Crowley had to regretfully sober up before they left. He was the one who had to drive, after all. Then, things fell back into place quite nicely. Aziraphale loved the new couch and the return of the white sofa, which was decidedly not leather anymore. He liked it enough to invite Crowley down on him, where they tried out Aziraphale’s cunt again. Only this time, Crowley sank nice and deep inside him, held him close with hands in his hair while they fucked.

They even fell asleep there, on the couch, curled up together and Crowley still inside. In the morning, it was a weird disentanglement that led straight to the bath, but it was strangely endearing. Crowley even took the time to wash Aziraphale’s hair before he reveled in the domesticity of it all. The timing would have to be perfect. A badly timed question might ruin everything. After that stint over the holy water, he knew that everything had to be _timed._ He couldn’t frighten Aziraphale off, not after they’d finally come so far. In the water, there, he ended up just holding onto Aziraphale until they’d both gone pruney and Aziraphale decided the shop could stay closed for the day.

It was only a few nights later that Crowley really _realized_ that Aziraphale might share his thoughts. Aziraphale was fast asleep, curled up with his arms under the pillows and legs tangled in the sheets, but Crowley was still wide awake. For the first time, he found himself quite unable to rest. It was getting colder out, which may have had something to do with it, but it was more than that. The closet door had been open. Crowley had spared it but once glance before he saw Aziraphale’s clothes hanging up right next to his, which had struck an odd sort of nerve in his chest. A happy one, so to say, but one that left him a little nervous.

Aziraphale’s shoes were out by the front door, where he hung his coat in the foyer. His dishes were in the kitchen, washed and filling the cupboards up. His food was in the fridge, freshly made from their first joint recipe. It had gone dreadfully, but they’d eaten what they could of the meal in laughter and togetherness; Crowley had enjoyed that meal more than any meal he’d had before. Aziraphale was everywhere in the house. He was in the plant room, with his own additions of flowers and niceties. The plants were doing better than ever with Aziraphale’s compliments, though he whispered them when he thought Crowley wasn’t listening. Only, Crowley was always listening. Ever so intently.

Aziraphale’s books were on the desk, in the lounge; there were two small shelves set up in the study, adorned with extra plants Crowley had bought on a whim. They did well with the extra light, so many windows. Aziraphale was even in the bathroom with his robe and his personal hygiene. The bubble bath had been an excellent touch. But then, there was just this. Standing in the doorway to his own room and watching Aziraphale sleep. He snored, every once and awhile, forgetting himself in the throngs of a deep rest. Crowley found it cute and had yet to share this information with Aziraphale. He just watched, for now, listening to the little hikes in breath and snorts through his nose. This wasn’t just his room anymore, or it didn’t feel that way. Aziraphale had slippers tucked up beside the bed, his cologne set up on the vanity—which was _also_ new and clashed with Crowley’s furniture.

He liked it, though, the juxtaposition that was so glaringly obvious between their two styles. Something about it worked. Something about it made him smile.

If Aziraphale felt the same. If Aziraphale had been leaving these things here in hopes of making this flat a home, for the _both_ of them. That would just be okay. Crowley would enthusiastically agree, save for the fact that he would have to do the asking. Asking a question didn’t seem like such a heartache until three seconds prior, when he realized that this would go on forever if he didn’t work up the courage to ask. That was a matter better left for tomorrow’s Crowley, though, and the present Crowley sauntered into bed and found his way under the sheets. He pulled up the quilt for good measure, and happily enveloped Aziraphale in a tight embrace when he rolled instinctively in his sleep.

What a foolish pair they made.

This Sunday morning, Aziraphale had made some grunt that translated directly to what Crowley was obliging him too. Where Aziraphale’s face was still planted in the pillows, his arms curled up underneath and comfortable, Crowley was on top of him, arms at his sides to steady, and sinking between the soft flesh of his thighs. If either of them was more awake, Crowley might have taken the time to open him up on his fingers and mount him, just like this, but for now it was a lazy roll of his hips where their cocks brushed together. There was no hurry, no real search of orgasm, just an intimate coupling before the sun had even come up.

It was all little soft nothings, whispered in Aziraphale’s ears. How good he was, how special, how magnificently wicked for always wanting and _wanting_ so early in the morning. Crowley was always happy to oblige, his hips working a bit faster now. He told Aziraphale just how wicked he was, thinking that Crowley hadn’t picked up on it. All the little things he’d left around the apartment. The books, the furniture, the clothes, the food, the knick-knacks. The blanket, even, which Aziraphale accused him of using it more often anyway, with a gasp. Crowley did rather like the quilt. It was plush and warm just like Aziraphale—and he took a handful of his sides to make his point.

They were desperate for a minute, for two, until they both splattered quite the mess, and Crowley went limp atop of him. Aziraphale sighed out, shifting until the weight was comfortable and he could look over his shoulder. There were kisses, there was a happy little sigh in his ear, and Crowley was just. There. A constant weight. A reminder. A tickle of breath, of eyelashes as he so rarely did blink.

“Move in with me,” Crowley whispered. “Stay here.”

“Pardon?” Aziraphale was turning all of the sudden. Crowley flopped on the bed beside him and miracled the mess away, then propped himself up on his elbow. Where Aziraphale pulled the sheets up to cover himself, Crowley laid gloriously naked.

“Move in with me, angel. Or, well,” he cleared his throat. “If you like. Would you?”

Aziraphale sort of stammered instead of answering. He’d pulled the sheets all the way up to his neck, now, a defense mechanism. The same way his clothes were always so tight and proper, because it kept him all contained to himself. Much like the sunglasses Crowley was wearing less and less with each day, the more time he spent at the flat. With Aziraphale.

Whatever Aziraphale had meant to say didn’t matter, because his inability to form a word was all the answer Crowley needed before he rolled off the side of the bed to pull on a pair of sorely under-utilized pajama pants. _Too fast._ That’s what Aziraphale had told him This routine was comfortable only because it was breakable. All of it had turned sour in an instant.

“Crowley, my dear—” Aziraphale tried.

“S’fine,” Crowley managed to keep the hiss at bay. “I’m gonna go care for the plants.”

He left for the plant room and did not return. When Aziraphale managed to dress and leave the bedroom a whole fifteen minutes later, Crowley had left the flat in some hurry. His sunglasses were still sitting on the desk, in the study. Right next to the books Aziraphale had left open the night before. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much ado other than sit down at the desk and wait. He had no reason to go to the bookshop, and given the temperature, he didn’t much feel like walking. He would just. Wait. Until Crowley came back.

Crowley did return, later in the evening, looking worse for wear and sauntering about like he was drunk. When Aziraphale had stood to greet him, Crowley pushed him off and barked rather loudly that he’d be sleeping in the lounge. He’d drive Aziraphale to the shop the following morning, if that’s what he needed, but he was due for a good long sleep. After fucking up in what royally way he’d managed, sleep seemed like the only thing that was left. And, in his state, he wasn’t fit for a good talk. They needed to talk. They both knew it.

They both did nothing about it.

Crowley flopped down on the white sofa and promptly, promptly fell asleep.

When he woke up, somewhere between ten-thirty and noon, the quilt was draped over his hips and the flat was empty. Something about it was awfully strange and dreary, not quite so much familiar anymore. Crowley was used to be alone in the flat, or he had been, until Aziraphale had all but moved in with everything but the name attached to it. Then, Crowley had gone and done the ludicrous thing of asking to make it official, and now he was alone. A loneliness that he had forgotten; his flat was bigger than it needed to be for one person, and the plants were drooping. Crowley was drooping.

The long sleep had left him sober enough, but the wake up was rude, so he finished it off. Now, entirely sober and a bit beside himself with discomfort, he slumped through the hallway into the kitchen in a subtle hope. Just as all the other rooms, it was empty, and the leftovers had been taken. Which, alright. Crowley didn’t indulge in eating quite as often as Aziraphale, so if he wanted to take their bad first attempt, then fine. It didn’t mean anything. Even if it might have meant that Aziraphale was mad and never coming back because, once again, as always, Crowley had gone too fast.

As if six-thousand fucking years wasn’t slow enough for him. Crowley cursed under his breath and barely contained himself from kicking the island table. That would have hurt more than necessary, as if this didn’t already hurt enough. It didn’t _mean_ anything. It couldn’t mean anything. If it meant something, it would mean something so absolutely aside from what Crowley wanted to believe that just. Well. He decided not to think much on it and instead found himself sitting back on the lounge. With the quilt. Which, as Crowley was the one who slept wrapped around it more often than not—it was the weather, and he was a snake—it scarcely smelled of Aziraphale anymore. What little remnants of that scent that remained reminded Crowley painfully of how Aziraphale might just be slipping away.

After rotting the whole day gone on the white sofa, no longer leather, he opted to pulling himself to sit and plucking at his phone. He thought he might try to phone Aziraphale. He’d only been gone for, well, twelve hours now. Didn’t seem like quite enough time to panic about his whereabouts or really be feeling as miserable as he did, but he tried anyway. The phone rang. And it rang. And it rang again. Aziraphale may have had an obnoxious alarm, but he had yet to set up a proper voice mail. The moral of the story remained the same, whether Crowley had listened to the entire automated voice or not. Aziraphale hadn’t answered. Maybe he wouldn’t ever.

Crowley eventually opted for throwing his phone on the coffee table and drifting off back to sleep, the quilt pulled up around his chin.

Three days passed before Crowley woke up. The television had switched itself off at some point; power saving was such a clever little human invention. Not so pleasant, however, was how the flat had gone cold. Even the plants weren’t doing so well anymore, though Crowley could barely find it in himself to yell at them for falling into this. He hadn’t exactly watered them, not in three days, and perhaps they deserved a bit of a reprieve. Aziraphale would’ve urged for one, even if he hadn’t returned the one call Crowley made. His phone was miraculously still charged, but it sat empty. No missed calls. No texts. No angel.

No bloody damn reason to mope around any longer.

Crowley pulled on one real and fine sports jacket and did a bit of a miracle the rest of the way, for warmth. Winter wasn’t his favorite time of year if only because it was cold, but he was willing to make the short walk out to the Bentley. The short drive. The short walk up to Aziraphale’s door, which was pleasantly _open_ , for once. A bitter thought or two might have passed by about how well the angel was clearly getting along, but it wasn’t as though opening the shop was anything special. He opened the shop daily, save Sunday, and never sold a book. With the open sign, he didn’t even have to knock. Instead, he marched right in like he quite and well belonged there, though something in the air told him he didn’t.

At the sound of the door, Aziraphale did step out from the side room where his desk and his chair were, where he’d apparently been reading something interesting enough to require the little readers Crowley had grown so fond of. Whatever the book, it had been a page turner; one that the sight of Crowley had positively ruined. Aziraphale had even been _excited_ to welcome a customer, but his face fell immediately. He was stiff, his hands picking uselessly at a loose thread on his waist coat, and everything was just as awkward as Crowley imagined. Except, when he woke up, Aziraphale hadn’t been there. So, what did it matter?

“Hey, angel,” Crowley gave the most nonchalant greeting he could think of.

“Yes, well. Hello.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow just delicately enough over his glasses that Aziraphale visibly winced.

“Alright, well,” and he spun his hand in the air while he broke off into a stammer of syllables and sounds. “See you later, angel.” A lot later. Forever later, apparently, and he turned on his heel to walk right back towards the door. There was a beat where his hand hovered over the handle, a beat where he just rested over it, and—

“Wait, Crowley—” Aziraphale seemed to call out of his own accord.

Crowley did turn back to see him. He couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t help the way he wanted to rush back over to him and apologize for whatever he said—an apparent bad habit of his. They stood in their way for a long moment where Aziraphale seemed to struggle for something to say, anything at all. Something about it seemed inevitable. Ineffable, Aziraphale might say. They just weren’t—

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale finally decided.

It had been there days. This was the best he could come up with.

“Right,” as if Crowley could come up with anything better, but at least he’d stepped away from the door. Aziraphale’s relief did not go unnoticed. “Fancy a spot of lunch?” Crowley tried.

“I’m afraid not.” Might there have been a chair anywhere near him, he would have collapsed into it in a rather dramatic and put out fashion, the stress of the situation getting to him. Instead, he back stepped and gestured to the side with the desk and the chair and—the second chair. “We do need to talk, however.”

“Right,” Crowley said again. It left a rather sour taste in his mouth, but he followed Aziraphale over regardless and plopped down in the provided armchair, while Aziraphale sat at his desk. There was a space between them that seemed to call for a bit of wine, maybe even just tea. Crowley might even concede for a spot of cocoa. Instead, there was a heavy silence that permeated outward into every nook and cranny it could find. Inside the pages of the books, there was an extra bit of silence just so they could hear that the other wasn’t even breathing.

“I’m afraid I’ve been rather unfair,” Aziraphale started.

“Have you?” right to the sarcasm. “Must have missed it. Been asleep,” and in his eyes was a deadpan bout of unimpressed notions. He’d gone past upset; Crowley was at the angry phase.

“My dear, please, don’t do this. I’m—well, I’m trying to _apologize._ ”

“Nothing to apologize for.”

“I ran out on you.”

“And I’ve just gone too fast,” Crowley bit, hissed, and folded his arms. Usually, in Aziraphale’s private company, he took to removing his sunglasses. Aziraphale rather liked his eyes, and it felt like a fair thing to do. This time, he kept them pushed up the bridge of his nose like armor and glared.

Aziraphale looked as if he’d just been stabbed by a sword of hellfire; Crowley should have felt bad. He couldn’t find it in his loveless heart to do so. How could he ever have thought that Aziraphale might want more than what they had? He was a _demon_ after all; all that holier-than-thou-ness that Aziraphale had surely took him elsewhere than the poor company of a demon who wasn’t very much good at his job. Though, they were effectively retired.

“You—you just surprised me, is all,” Aziraphale tried, his voice pleading. “I wasn’t expecting it! Not like. Well, not like _that._ _”_

“Apologies. Next time, I’ll prepare a choir and some candles.”

Aziraphale should have been offended, but much in the way of his surprise at the Bandstand far too long ago— “Next time?”

Crowley leaned towards him, “sure, next time. Anything you want, angel. If I must ask better, then I will. I don’t. Well,” he snorted and leaned back into the armchair. “I did _mean it_ , I suppose.”

“Oh.”

“Oh,” Crowley mocked.

“Rather, I wasn’t expecting it.”

“You said.”

“I just thought we’d wait a little longer.”

“It’s been nearly a year.”

“Yes, well, it did take us more than a few to even reach this point.”

“You keep leaving your things at my flat.”

“Yes, I know!” Aziraphale raised his voice and gripped his hands to fists. “I was—I’m comfortable there.”

“So then _move in_ , angel.”

Aziraphale remained silent.

“This is ridiculous. I’m leaving,” Crowley pushed himself up out of the chair. “Rather you’d just say _no_ instead of spinning me on like this. I may be a _demon_ , but that doesn’t mean—”

“I don’t _want_ to say no, I’m just— Oh, Crowley, I just. I’m afraid.”

“Afraid.”

“Yes, well. I realize it’s not particular _practical_ or logical, whatever have you. But, it’s just—”

“But why, angel? You can be afraid that’s, that’s not the issue. It’s _why_ ,” Crowley had not quite settled back, but he was closer than he had been before, like he was ready to kneel before Aziraphale and take his hands or something rather the same romantic gesture. Aziraphale’s throat nearly closed up on the sight.

“What if—what if something happens?”

“What? Like we lose the telly remote or there’s hair in the sink?”

“No,” Aziraphale huffed. “What if _they_ find out?”

They. As in Heaven or Hell. Those who had attempted to eradicate them and had since left them alone. The body swap trick had done nicely as a bit of defense, but it all still clearly weighed on Aziraphale. He wasn’t supposed to be _fraternizing_ with a demon, anyway. Much less falling in love with one— _being_ in love with one. The falling had happened some time ago. A particular type of Fall had yet to happen, and they were both hoping that it never would. Something about being an angel fit Aziraphale so well, and Crowley remembered what it was like to be an angel. If he were to live to see Aziraphale Fall, he would’ve preferred the holy water take him.

“They won’t, angel,” he attempted the best bit of hope he could find. “They’re off our trail for now, that was the plan.”

“But there’s still a chance.”

“So, you’re willing to sacrifice _us_ on a chance?”

Aziraphale stiffened. Always as he did, Crowley taking things out of context and in the worst way possible. But he was right. Aziraphale was risking everything he’d come to find on a _chance_ that Heaven or Hell would come for them.

“Isn’t it better to take our chance than carry on waiting for theirs? I don’t,” and Crowley did take his hands, even if he wasn’t kneeling, “want to be without you. It’s taken me too long to realize that, and I’m not about to un-realize that.”

“You’re clearly stronger than I am, then,” Aziraphale just shook his head.

“Can’t you see I’m terrified, angel? I’m waiting for the day you realize that I’m a _demon_ that’s no more worth your love than—well, whatever it is angels can’t love.” The fact that they were beings of love left entirely unsaid. “The point stands. I’m more afraid that you’ll find something better than I ever was of Hell.”

“Oh, Crowley…” Aziraphale squeezed their hands together. “I could never,” he whispered.

“Then _live_ with me. I need you there. It’s not the same without you.”

Aziraphale hesitated.

“I’ll protect you if I have to. Anything at all. Just—please, angel.”

Aziraphale conceded, at least for the moment. To at least go home with Crowley. Home had quite the pleasant little ring to it, after all. Even if their home was to be one London flat with mismatched furniture and more plants than any man-shaped beings needed. And, of course, the Bentley. Which Crowley intended on driving the speed limit back to the flat, when Aziraphale comfortable in the passenger seat and fidgeting, as he did.

When they arrived back at the flat, Crowley had to open his door and help him out. Aziraphale was nervous about something. About everything. About Crowley doing exactly what he did, which was taking him by the hand and leading him across the street from his relatively probably legal parking space and into the building. Crowley didn’t let go of his hand until they were in the apartment, and even then, he waited until the door was safely locked and they were in the study.

“What about my things?” Aziraphale suddenly asked.

“In time, we’ll get there,” Crowley ushered him to sit in the rather throne looking chair. Issue one dealt with.

“I never thought we’d get _here_ , so this is all rather. Well,” Aziraphale tapped his thighs, bouncing in the nervous energy, “tickety-boo.”

“I am rather glad of it, for what it’s worth. The whole. You’re here now, that’s what matters.”

Aziraphale looked positively warm and happy.

“I believed you, you know. That you’ll protect me. I know you’d never let any harm come to me, just as I wouldn’t allow it to come to you.”

Crowley cracked the smallest smile. He eventually perched himself on the edge of the desk, letting his legs dangle down as he regarded Aziraphale over with yellow bled eyes.

“I do so love you, my angel,” with such a reverence that Aziraphale shivered when Crowley’s hands came to cup around his jaw. “I should like to have you here every day. I should like to wake up to your face and to cook breakfast together. I should even like to see you to your bookshop.”

“My,” like a courted woo. “I love you too, my dear.”

Crowley dragged his fingers alone Aziraphale’s jaw, down his chin, and tipped his head up ever so slightly.

“Might have been nice if we could have skipped straight to this part,” he mulled.

Aziraphale hummed in response, “I do believe they call it make up sex, Crowley. The humans.”

Crowley snorted and slithered off the desk close enough to whisper, just for the very real worry of taking things this far, that he _wasn_ _’t_ mad. Not anymore. They could talk later if they needed to, because time was no object any longer. Just as abundant as any miracle and any amount of cash they could ever need. If it was too much, too really, well—Aziraphale knew how he could stop it. Stopping this was something he wouldn’t dream of, not when he could pull Crowley by his tie and kiss him.

By the time they gave up on the bedroom and tumbled into the lounge, most of their clothes had been left through the hallway. Crowley had managed to retain his pants, dreadful as the things were too tight to just slip on down as Aziraphale’s had. He’d just stepped out of them somewhere near the bathroom, and Crowley had taken such a full hand of his arse that he’d moaned right into their desperate kiss. Crowley had all the freedom of a demon, if he had really wanted to, he could have lifted Aziraphale right off the ground and done what he pleased. He settled for backing him into the sofa and falling atop of him, pressed up between his thighs and hips grinding together. Aziraphale’s hands were all up in his hair, one making a pointed grab for his glasses and dropping them off to the side. A little miracle put them on the table instead of the floor, but it hadn’t been Crowley’s miracle. He was far too focused with the kissing and grinding and the way the buttons of Aziraphale’s waist coat were digging into him.

Crowley’s kisses were burning along Aziraphale’s jaw now instead, nipping down to his neck where his teeth were a little sharper than maybe necessary, but Aziraphale groaned anyway. He gripped into Crowley’s shoulders, rolling his hips up to meet him. There was still so much fabric between them, still far too much, but Aziraphale couldn’t even bring himself to care. He was too caught up in the hard outline of Crowley’s cock and the way he could feel it press up between his thighs. Where, he was still quite smooth and still enjoying the little jolts of pleasure all the same. Crowley didn’t even seem to _mind._ He was happy to just rut against him, pressing bites and tongue into his neck and around his ear.

“Should just leave you and take care of myself,” Crowley muttered, shifting up to really press his groin as close as he could get. “Look at you, look how bad you want it.”

“Crowley—that would be quite rude of you.”

Crowley’s laugh was more of a hiss, but it wasn’t _angry_ , “rude? You left me here for days, and I’m rude? No, I think I should rather tie you up somewhere and keep you here instead. Make sure you can never leave.”

He dipped his head down again to steal a kiss, his tongue long and forked and nearly down his throat; it was so unfair. Aziraphale gripped into his bare shoulders, finely manicured nails leaving little red marks in their wake. When he tried to press up, there was nothing to meet him this time. Crowley had _moved_ , and—damned it all, Aziraphale whimpered into their kiss. Crowley pulled back immediately, making a point to hold Aziraphale’s head down by his hair so he couldn’t chase after the heated press of lips and tongue and everything that he _wanted._ This wasn’t about him getting what he wanted. Crowley smirked.

“You’d like that though, wouldn’t you?” he clicked his tongue. “Left you tied to the bed so you couldn’t leave, but I certainly could. Imagine the possibilities,” he hissed lowly, letting the edge of his tongue dip around Aziraphale’s ear as he did.

Aziraphale _could_ imagine the possibilities. Crowley could do anything he wanted, because of course, Aziraphale wouldn’t ever try to get away. Not from such a promise. No. It was much more fun to be at Crowley’s mercy. Watching him with that kind of power was arousing all its own, but the things that he would do. His tongue alone was divine, but then he might leave Aziraphale there tied up to the bed and leave him open and wanting for more. He always, always did want more. Even now, he was still trying to get more. Trying to roll his hips up, shift his legs to find _more_ of Crowley. Crowley only let out a quiet and warm little laugh.

“You haven’t anything even for me. How can I even be sure you want it?” to prove his point, Crowley slipped his hand down over Aziraphale’s belly, down into his underwear where he could grip at the smooth expanse between his thighs. There was nothing there, but Aziraphale still gasped and tried to cover his mouth with his hand. Nothing, but when Crowley dragged his nails over the skin, Aziraphale’s thighs trembled and he let out this sweet little noise. Crowley’s fingers dug into the skin where he might have had a cunt, otherwise, and the result was nearly the same. A pretty little keen and a flush down to his neck.

“Still,” Crowley hissed, tsked, and smiled a certain type of smile that left Aziraphale dazed. “Nothing.”

“What do you want of me?” Aziraphale’s voice. “Anything, I’ll do anything.”

“A nice warm place,” each word was punctuated as Crowley walked his fingers up Aziraphale’s chest, “for me to make you mine.”

Aziraphale gulped.

Crowley didn’t wait a second longer and yanked Aziraphale’s underwear away. Then, shuffled about enough to pull his cock free and stroke it in quick succession. He groaned, eyes rolled back, and nearly lost himself. But Aziraphale was rolling his hips, trying to get that same bit of attention—that’s when Crowley hoisted his legs up, knees thrown over his shoulders, his cock nestled right up between the fat of Aziraphale’s thighs. A nice, warm place. Pressed against the soft expanse of Aziraphale’s sexless groin, but he still worried at his lip with the sensations. Dulled, but familiar. He _remembered_ them.

“Just like this, angel,” Crowley whispered. Aziraphale gave a pained nod but made no effort.

Crowley’s hips started to shift, rolling forward at such a slow and precise pace. Every little brush, every _drag_ , the tension alone was more than it needed to be. There was nothing _there_ , Aziraphale reasoned. Crowley was fucking between his thighs so clearly for himself, using Aziraphale to find his pleasure but it was good. It felt good. Little jolts of pleasure, shocks that sort of rippled out into a spreading warmth. So slow. So perfect. Aziraphale gripped into the couch when Crowley started to move faster. His hips came flush against Aziraphale’s ass in a slap of flesh, over and over as he fucked forward. Rolling his hips, quickly, hard; he moved both Aziraphale’s legs over one shoulder to tighten the space around his cock.

“Yes,” he hissed. His eyes were closed tight, and his head rolled back.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but groan in response. Watching Crowley like this was something. He was positively, well, _everything._ Beautiful was a good word, but Aziraphale was sure Crowley wouldn’t like that. He could barely handle nice. Which, all of this was. So wonderfully _nice_ that it had Aziraphale backed into the arm of the couch, gripping into the fabric with his jaw dropped open. All these pretty little noises matched in the way he was rolling his hips, trying to help Crowley along. The angle was everything, and it was perfect. With it, he could watch the obscene way Crowley’s cock moved between his thighs, poking out with every forward thrust and leaving precum behind. Aziraphale even, well, he had to do _something_ for Crowley. When he hooked his ankles together and squeezed his thighs, Crowley’s hips stuttered and his fingernails—oh his fingernails where digging into Aziraphale’s thighs in attempt to get a hold of himself.

“Devious little—” Crowley gasped, pushing harder. Not faster but _harder_. Aziraphale was helpless but to watch him, shivering every time his prick rubbed against his skin, poked between his thighs.

“Can I? Can I touch myself?” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley’s fingers dragged down his thighs, taking handfuls of him to massage and scratch and love. He was smirking, permission enough, and wondering just what Aziraphale would do with that permission. Nothing to touch, after all. His thighs were the perfect place, plush and warm, squeezing around him. Aziraphale surprised him when he grabbed at his own chest, cupping the extra pudge and massaging himself. Crowley stuttered a breath, his hips breaking stride; he had to marvel at this for a minute. Aziraphale pulled and plucked at his own nipples. He was playing with himself, touching in all the ways he knew that he liked. A moment later, his eyes opened again so he could stare at Crowley, who was all big yellow eyes and dilated pupils. Staring.

“Crowley. Crowley, please,” Aziraphale rolled his hips.

“You could come like this, couldn’t you?” Crowley had to ask, pushing his hips again. The sudden jolt had Aziraphale gasping. He nodded hurriedly, tugging on his nipples.

Crowley groaned in response, working his hips all the quicker now. Aziraphale squeezed his thighs, worked his hips too. He _wanted_ Crowley to come, needed him to. Watching Crowley come undone over him was an experience, every time. Always so perfect and lovely; he was moaning just thinking about it. Then, Crowley was stuttering, his grip suddenly harder. Aziraphale was letting the bruises form: a pleasant reminder for the morning. If it wasn’t already.

A second later, Crowley was coming in spurts, painting Aziraphale’s belly as his hips stuttered. If Aziraphale had had anything, he would’ve followed a moment later; instead, he let out a whimper as his entire body convulsed. They continued to move together, Crowley between his thighs and spreading that mess. The touch was fiery; they were both sensitive but working through it just to _feel_ each other. Until Crowley had finally come down and had enough wherewithal to set Aziraphale’s legs back down on the couch. He ended up using Aziraphale’s discarded underwear to wipe him down, then flopped forward on him with his head tucked up by his neck.

“You’re fantastic,” Crowley muttered. He gave a little hum when Aziraphale’s hand swept through his hair. “Yes,” he hissed, “positively divine.”

Aziraphale could’ve laughed, but he just smiled instead.

“You’re quite wonderful yourself,” he ventured.

Crowley snorted in response, but for once, he didn’t argue. He just curled closer. “I think we should get a fireplace,” he said.

Aziraphale nodded, “I agree. I have some rather lovely little statutes we could put on the mantle.”

He could feel Crowley’s smile curl into his skin. There was still something stirring in his chest that might have been fear, but it also may have just been love. The kind of love that warms the hearth of a home and makes it Home. Or, just the kind of warmth that Crowley craved when it got cold outside and his nature as a snake played against him. Aziraphale was happy to provide it either way and pulled down the quilt over top of them. Somewhere in the night, the fireplace appeared, and the television moved to mount above it. They’d get Aziraphale’s knick-knacks later.

**Author's Note:**

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